


Closing Time

by SpiderKatana



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Church Sex, Feels, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Past Abuse, Peter Coming To Terms With His Sexuality, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Priest!Wade, Sacrilege, Sanctuary Seeking Peter, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiderKatana/pseuds/SpiderKatana
Summary: Wade found a home for himself within the walls of a small town Church after a life of mistakes. He kept the church open for people like him, for those running from the person they no longer wanted to be. He wasn't prepared for the day Peter Parker stayed after closing time."I've loved you longer than I've loved myself."
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 209
Collections: Spideypool Priest Fest 2019





	Closing Time

Wade was used to the silence of the church at 11pm. He refused to lock up any earlier than the latest hour. He’d once been the victim searching for comfort and sanctuary and no one had been there for him to turn to. There wasn’t a door or a balcony and there wasn’t a glimmer of warmth in the darkness until he’d slept on the front steps of the church hoping that maybe on holy ground no one would call the police. 

It wasn’t the prettiest story, but just one night of sleep without being robbed had been all Wade needed at the time to sob with gratitude. It’d been nearly a decade, but he still refused to deprive others of possible entry. 

People didn’t often take advantage of the opportunity though. After the seven o’clock mass, the church emptied out rather quickly with only the occasional visitor in the confessional and Wade busied himself cleaning and replacing the candles, counting out the donations for the bank deposit, checking the food supply for the small shop out back to make sure they could pay off the property lease. He did what needed to be done, and then walked out to the altar again to see if anyone appeared. For a long time, Wade received no after hours visitors. Then came in the hurt men and women, victims of abusive relationships, the people who wanted to confess their sins, those who wanted the time to pray for deceased family members or relatives in the hospital. It was never a tradition for any of them, much less a nightly occurrence, but a steady stream of people walked in and out of the front doors. 

More often than not, he still spent the last three hours on his own. 

And then he saw Peter Parker. 

The first time Wade saw him he felt something tear in his chest- a vein ripping itself out free of the muscle or a stray thought freezing his blood. Whatever it was, it gripped him and didn’t let him ignore the kid. He’d been sitting there, just resting in the middle row in clear view- as if the world didn’t register, as if his vulnerability was nothing to be ashamed of. He’d been staring into the emptiness of the bench before him-- waiting. Just waiting. Wade wasn’t sure what for. There were people who sat in the front rows or kneeled in the side hallways to pray- to wait for a sign, for forgiveness, for salvation. There were people who sat in the back rows, needing help but feeling too ashamed or fearful to ask for it. Not him. Peter Parker did not spare a thought for the people who might judge him. He stayed until Wade had no choice but to be the one that approached him, wrong-footed and unsure of what he was to say. He’d never seen the guy before, he’d never been to mass, he wasn’t part of his parish, he wasn’t part of the choir, or the son of one of the devoted families. He was a stranger in a hand-me-down black leather jacket that hung large on his frame, tangled curls that partially hid his face, worn military boots, and a blank stare. 

Wade had felt sorry for him, but it was closing hour and there wasn’t anything he could do without context. He remembered approaching him quietly, sitting beside him and saying, “It’s closing hour.” 

“I know.” 

Wade hadn’t succeeded in getting the guy to even look up at him and he added, “You can stay, but you need to tell me you have nowhere else to go. I can’t lock up if I’m locking you inside without your express permission.” 

That had gotten him a response, a look of loss and sorrow and _pain_ etching itself across delicately arranged features that made him almost regret closing before midnight. But he’d received a tight nod, the sight of a single tear dragging its way down lightly tanned skin, and Peter became a regular visitor. They hadn’t talked about it. Wade didn’t press the subject. Those who wanted to speak to him would when they felt ready and Peter, no matter how many times he came back, did not seem ready. 

He stayed the night, and the day after, and it often felt like he hardly left the church bedrooms. Wade’s church had once housed three priests and several nuns but now it was just him- him and Peter. He ran mass with the rotation of volunteer parishioners and where he once ran closing duties on his own, he now had Peter. 

It wasn’t _easy,_ and Wade wondered how he’d _survived_ running everything on his own for so long before Peter came along. Peter could leave and Wade would die maybe five days later from the exhaustion. Peter was the one that reminded him to eat now, to sleep. Peter would make him snacks between masses and bring them out to him after mass was over. Peter was the only one Wade could read other books with as well. People seemed to think that being devoted meant they couldn’t enjoy other aspects of life. Peter didn’t believe in such things. 

He threw himself into projects and perhaps he didn’t finish all of them. He never wrote an ending to his play, he never finished the additions to the choir songs, he could never find the right ending to the piano piece he wrote to perform. Maybe it was because he was afraid to share a piece of himself with anyone he didn’t know, but he shared it all with Wade without hesitation and Wade… he didn’t know what to do with all of it. Peter sang like he was trying to embody angels, he worked like the world was resting on his shoulders, he wrote like he was _running out of time._

Wade watched everything in awe. It had been so long and he knew Peter like the back of his hand and still he knew _nothing._ If Wade broke and asked questions, Peter would disappear for several days. He always came back with bruises and that same goddamn empty look in his eyes that reminded Wade of the man he used to be. Peter had his sanctuary, but Wade kept thinking over and over again that where he’d found his salvation, Peter never had. 

He wanted to protect him, to hold him, to tell him everything would be okay- 

He wanted a lot of things he couldn’t have and it felt like it was eating away at him from the inside. 

He couldn’t ask for any of that. 

The members of the church all believed Peter was employed by the church. After all, Wade did put his name on all the lessons created for the Saturday first communion school lessons. 

Everyone assumed that Peter, the guy who wrote all the catholic school lessons and made food and stuck around for closing time was a devoted new hire. Or a homeless volunteer helping out. Wade couldn’t classify him. He didn’t know if Peter had another home, he’d practically lived in the church for two years by then. He didn’t know if Peter believed in God, Peter would only discuss the bible itself vaguely and only opened up when they spoke about other books, books that _didn’t_ have religious themes. Wade didn’t even know why Peter had come into his life and whenever he thought about Peter going away again-- it felt like he forgot how to _breathe._

He didn’t want to ask Peter for anything that might scare him off for good. His feelings were… complicated. Wrong, according to the word he claimed to believe in. Wade just… wasn’t sure what to believe in anymore. He wanted to claim his faith was immovable, unshakable, but that wasn’t true. Its value diminished the night Peter fell asleep against his shoulder after they read _In The Heart Of The Sea._ It diminished further when Peter asked about all his favorite foods and made them a dinner for two to celebrate Christmas together. It died into a flickering candle light flame when Peter wrote a play for him, a play clearly structured around a character that acted and looked like Wade with no ending to it. It became nonexistent the first time Peter left for days on end only to return bruised and scarred, locking himself in his room for hours when Wade tried to ask what _happened._

It happened three times. 

The third time, Wade broke down. He couldn’t handle it anymore. He couldn’t handle being ignored, he couldn’t handle knowing nothing, he couldn’t _stand_ the fact that Peter was in pain and that he wouldn’t share that burden with him because it _felt_ like they were something. But they weren’t and Wade was tired of feeling guilty, like he was the monster here. 

He’d been in prison, he’d been on the streets, he _had been the monster before._

He wasn’t being a monster now. 

Peter locked himself in that room again. Wade didn’t knock on his door. 

He couldn’t sleep, so he was wide awake when the hallway lights came on and there was a shadow of a person beneath his door. Peter didn’t knock, so Wade didn’t open for him. 

The next day, Peter had made breakfast for two. Wade went to the back store instead like he used to and talked to the woman at the front counter who always opened up for him, listening to her talk about her husband and her kids and how well they were doing in school. He felt happy for her… and he felt hollow. 

He just kept smiling. 

His smile wasn’t quite as bright during mass, but he held his head high and went on with his day as if nothing was amiss. When morning mass was over, Wade saw Peter from the corner of his eye, leaving a snack for him on the high table. Wade didn’t eat it. He left it right where it was and continued. Three sermons in a day, three times where he preached about a religion he wasn’t sure he had faith in anymore, three routine moments of offering the body and wine of Christ to his parishioners with a comforting smile because they deserved the illusion of warmth and happiness he didn’t feel. 

This continued during choir rehearsals, during the scheduled funeral service, during the next day of mass and the Saturday classes. Wade tried his best to survive as he had before Peter became a part of his daily routine, and Peter kept approaching him but never saying _anything._

Wade wanted to give it all up, to scream, to knock down the candles and set fire to _everything_ if it meant he could just be with Peter the way they had been before-- even if he never got to have more than that. It wasn’t real, not even a friendship if Peter never told him anything about himself, but Wade missed him desperately and he was only a room away at any given time. 

He had given up on his self-imposed exile and prepared himself to go to Peter’s room and knock. 

Peter wasn’t in his room. 

For a single terrifying moment, Wade thought Peter left because of his idiocy-- that he’d noticed Wade’s emotions, the attachment, that he’d left for good. 

He ran out from the back rooms to the altar in hopes that he could stop Peter from leaving, that he could apologize, that he could… beg him not to leave because without him Wade wasn’t living anymore. He’d forgotten how to exist without him, he was the light in Wade’s world, he was Wade’s damned _religion._

Except all of his chase instincts burned to ashes when he saw Peter sitting there-- the row in the middle. His hair wasn’t as long as it had been, it wasn’t as messy, his leather jacket wasn’t as loose as it had been once, not since he’d started eating proper meals and helping out around the church. His eyes-- they didn’t look dead. But even now, cared for and warm and safe and fed, Peter still looked just as broken as the day they met. 

It was closing time. 

Wade didn’t go to the doors. He didn’t start counting money to make a deposit. He didn’t check any food. He didn’t put out or replace any candles. He made slow, quiet steps down the aisle until he reached Peter’s row and, just like he once had, he sat beside him. 

“It’s closing time,” he murmured. 

Peter laughed. It was a bark of a laugh, a strained sound that revealed just how close Peter was to sobbing. He trembled in place, breathing in and out shakily as his hand met Wade’s on the old wooden bench. 

“I know,” he choked out. 

Wade turned his hand in Peter’s, lacing their fingers together, his heart beating out of his chest as he stared at the cross at the front of the church hall, the golden cross where a statue of their savior watched over him for so long, his guidance no longer the driving force of Wade’s will. 

Peter turned his head to look at him, tears in his eyes. 

“Forgive me, Father.” 

Wade let himself be weak. He’d pretended to have strength for two years when he was wearing himself thin and he could no longer hold up the act. He tilted his chin up just enough so that when he leant forward, his lips touched Peter’s forehead for a lingering second as he quietly promised, “You’ve committed no sin, Petey.” 

Peter cried that night, full body-wracking sobs and heaving shoulders and tears that stained his cheeks and throat with the evidence of his agony. 

Wade held his hand until he was too exhausted to go on, and once he had no tears to spare, Wade carried him to bed. 

Wade was still awake when Peter crept into his room and crawled under his bedsheets. Wade was still awake when Peter hugged him from behind, Wade remained awake until Peter finally lost consciousness and only when he felt a steady heartbeat against his back did he allow himself to let go of the waking world. 

Weeks went by and their routine continued. It was the same as before, Peter made them food and they read together and Wade got to see everything Peter made and live in awe of him. However, Peter finished the piano piece. He finished his new songs for the choir. He wrote new lessons for the communion school. He finished the play, giving Wade’s character a happy ending with his squire. When Wade asked questions-- about Peter’s past or his childhood or _anything,_ he received answers. The most notable change was the fact that every night, Peter ended up in his bed. They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t discuss it. Sometimes Peter went to his own room at the beginning of the night, sometimes he didn’t bother, but every single morning Wade would wake up with Peter’s arm over his ribcage and one hand tangled in his over his bed sheets. 

It was everything and not enough all at once. 

It felt like they were holding onto the last shreds of normalcy and lines to cross before veering into the unknown and neither of them knew how to breach the surface of that discussion. 

Peter tried to fill in the silences with stories. He told Wade about Aunt May, about the way he never met his parents but they were Catholic so Aunt May chose to raise him the way they would have-- how she and Uncle Ben were the perfect parents for him. He talked about growing up with Gwen and Harry, how after Aunt May died his Uncle Ben died in a car accident. It was a suspected suicide and Peter hated himself for resenting that he hadn’t been good enough for Uncle Ben to stay for. He explained that Norman Osborn adopted him and disowned him after Harry kissed him when they were sixteen. 

He talked about sleeping with the high school jock Flash for a place to sleep because the foster home he’d been left in didn’t have any food for him. Wade got to learn about Gwen, how they fell in love, how she recoiled away from him when she found out he was still involved with Flash Thompson, how she didn’t understand that he wasn’t in love with his abuser, but he just _needed a roof over his head._

He told Wade about MJ, how they worked together for the Daily Bugle, how she recognized him from high school and accidentally outed him to the office-- how he tried to say he wasn’t gay, he’d done it for _food_ and shelter. He lost his job, stayed with MJ because she felt guilty-- left because she would bring up lingering glances and ask him to accept a sexuality he didn’t believe he had. 

Each of these confessions were hushed and ashamed and given in Wade’s bedsheets when darkness held a veil over their eyes. Peter didn’t seem to feel safe otherwise. 

His confessions were always visceral and gripping and they hurt Wade, not just because they reminded him of his own experiences, but because Peter didn’t deserve _any_ of it. Peter was both the strongest and most fragile person Wade had ever met and he wanted to protect him even when he felt whole in his arms. 

Wade figured that it took them two years to even open up to one another, this was all he could allow himself to ask for. 

He would shift to turn in bed and hold Peter close and stop himself, hand hovering over Peter’s cheek before he retreated and turned back toward the wall. He would try and finish mass a bit earlier to make them dinner for two but look at the burnt mess he made of the pots and just wash them dejectedly instead. He would start writing Peter a story or a song and sigh heavily at his less-than-stellar creations because his mind didn’t work the way Peter’s did. He wasn’t talented, he wasn’t a singer or a writer, he couldn’t play the piano, his cooking skills equated to the knowledge of making a kraft mac and cheese bowl and a sandwich. He didn’t know how to be someone Peter wanted. What they had was enough and he hadn’t broken his vows and he should have stopped then but he didn’t know how to stop himself. 

He would give it all up for Peter but if Peter _wanted_ him to… wouldn’t he have said something? 

He didn’t know. He wasn’t going to be the one to take that chance and ruin a good thing. 

He wrote himself a small reminder, a simple note in the bible he used for mass that read: _If he wanted more, he would ask for more. This is good enough. This is everything._

It was more than he had ever expected to have with his past and his scars. 

He didn’t know Peter used that bible to create lesson plans. He’d never seen Peter use that bible. 

He walked out from the back doorway out to the altar and faltered, hand catching on the doorway to steady himself as he saw the white cover in Peter’s grip, lips parted and eyes reflecting a sensation of shock as his thumb traced over a set of words Wade had grown far too familiar with-- staring at them every day as a reminder and a prayer for strength. 

Wade’s breath caught in his throat and it must have been loud because Peter’s gaze met his from across the altar, the light from the glass windows across the church pillar dancing across his eyes like they were mirrors as he Wade stood there, panic growing in his chest. 

“It’s… it’s closing time, Petey.” 

He waited for a response, a sign, an acknowledgement. Peter merely opened his mouth to speak and shut it when he couldn’t form words. 

Wade swallowed compulsively, trying to keep his emotions at bay when Peter set the bible down gently on the high table with shaking hands and declared, “I know.” 

Wade couldn’t read the emotions there and it felt like everything he wanted was fading away in front of him until Peter grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head. 

“What are you-!” 

Wade stopped. He was startled by Peter’s action, ready to shout in a panic and suddenly he couldn’t speak. 

Peter no longer had bruises on his neck like he once did on those nights he left, he didn’t have fresh wounds. However, where most of Wade’s scars were impossible to hide, Peter was able to keep all of his beneath layers of shirts and pajamas and suddenly the long sleeves he wore each summer made sense. 

He had a smattering of scars all over his sides, his chest, his abdomen, his arms. There were cigarette burns and deep scratches where the skin was still pink, thin white scars that had to have been self inflicted set vertically along his inner forearms, deep slashes of white raised skin from what had to have been a whip cutting into his skin. 

There were other scars Wade couldn’t identify, raised pleats of skin over Peter’s shoulders, raised almost in circles. He had been through _hell_ and Wade took a step forward, reaching out to embrace him but Peter put a hand against Wade’s chest to keep him at a distance and Wade’s heart had to have been _bleeding_ with the echoes of his pain. 

“Peter, I-” 

“I’m not gay.” 

Wade flinched and stopped moving entirely. He sucked in a startled breath and felt his heart sinking with the claim until- 

“I… I like both. I like men.” 

Peter laughed at his own admission, the words were too light, too cheery, almost like it caused him pain to say them but he wanted to be proud anyway. 

“MJ was so _insistent_ and I just… left. My parents were Catholic, Aunt May and Uncle Ben were Catholic, everyone that was ever kind to me before was _Catholic_ so I thought- I couldn’t like men. It was wrong, and she was wrong about me and if I,” he hesitated and his chest rose with helpless little breaths as he soldiered on. “If I went back to Flash and let him have me again and I _didn’t_ like it… I could prove it.” 

Wade deflated, taking hold of Peter’s hand and gripping tight because he was devastated for him and he had no idea what else he could do in the face of his words. _“Peter.”_

Peter grimaced and kept his eyes on the ground. 

“I know. Don’t- I _know._ I hated it because it was him, but I didn’t… I didn’t hate the act itself. I didn’t want to look for anyone else and admit that I was-- gay. So I kept going back to Flash, I kept letting him… have me. And again, didn’t exactly have a _job_ or a place to stay so he could- he could do whatever he wanted. Bring in whoever he wanted.” Peter looked up at Wade for only a second before shame overcame his expression and he had to look out at the empty church with his arms crossed over the scars on his chest as he whispered, “They could do whatever they wanted.” 

“Peter, I would _never--_ we would never need to-- you don’t have to--”

Soft, beautiful hands rose up to thumb over Wade’s cheekbones. 

It was only when Peter’s hands drifted down to settle over Wade’s clothed collarbones, a wetness following their slow journey down Wade’s throat, that he realized he’d been crying and Peter was wiping away his tears. 

He didn’t meet Wade’s eyes then. 

He kept his eyes on the curve of Wade’s jaw and Wade tensed as Peter crept closer, his movements silent and full of purpose, a clarity in his eyes Wade had never seen before. 

“Oh, Father,” he began in a hushed decibel, voice so low that it seemed to be on the verge of breaking, leaning in and nosing lightly at Wade jaw, leaving a light kiss at the corner where Wade’s jaw met his earlobe. “If only you knew all the evil things they did to me.” 

He sounded almost like he might cry then, like he was overwhelmed and close to losing his sanity, but when he pulled back to meet Wade’s eyes he wore a smile that was _breathtaking,_ if only because Wade had never caught a glimpse of it before that moment. He’d never seen Peter look genuinely _happy_ before, but he could see the way he lit up even as a tear raced down his cheek. Peter breathed in, closing his eyes as their foreheads met and Wade held onto Peter’s forearms for fear he wasn’t allowed to touch anywhere else. Peter opened his eyes partway, looking down at the motion with a soft little grin before he met Wade’s gaze once more. “Oh, Father… you would hold me _naked in your arms.”_

Wade inhaled sharply, and whatever he managed to breathe in was stolen from him in his next breath because he forgot that breathing was necessary, he forgot the church wasn’t locked, he forgot about the bible and Catholicism and all that existed was _Peter._

It seemed like his heartbeat was ringing in his ears as the buttons of his robe came undone, as he was backed into the church pews by the piano, hearing the light clashing of their bodies against the metal echo throughout the church hall. It felt like Peter’s touch was the only thing he could register-- there were sounds, there was moonlight and candle light and the sensation of Peter breathing him in and leaving marks on his skin. 

Wade didn’t want to leave marks, he didn’t want to remind Peter of anyone else, he was happy to tangle his fingers into Peter’s hair and run his tongue from the hollow of his throat up to his bottom lip before kissing him breathless. He was happy to finish tearing off his own clothes and and yank Peter’s pants down to his knees so they could frantically rut against each other, the violent clash of the old church pews ringing out into the soft lighting. He was happy to take them both into his hand as he held onto a pew in a _death grip_ to keep himself standing while Peter jerked in his grip and left scratches on his back in his desperation. 

Wade was happy to be blessed with the view of Peter fingering himself after retrieving a bottle of lube from his room, for what _definitely_ didn’t look like his first try. He was enamored when Peter stood on trembling _gorgeous_ legs to pull Wade close and back him up against the piano’s bench until he sat back and watched his obsession crawl into his lap with heavy breaths and tiny, aborted thrusts against his thigh. 

He bit his lip hard enough to _make himself bleed_ as Peter sunk down on him with the longest exhale of _relief and satisfaction_ Wade ever heard. Peter spared a minute to kiss him, to pant and bite at his bottom lip, to shiver as Wade’s arms encircled him and his hands traced up his spine. When Peter started moving, Wade was _helpless._ Peter was _writhing_ in his lap, arching his back and placing both hands on Wade’s knees for balance as he fucked himself like he might die if he didn’t finish. 

The sounds he made weren’t loud, just quiet, breathy little gasps that travelled up the pews and came back to Wade in whispers like a delayed sound effect of what he was experiencing. His skin was completely bare, his chest rising and falling sporadically as he tried to breathe through his actions and Wade held onto his hips tight enough to leave the indents of his fingertips in red. 

Wade sounded almost _pained_ as tried to hold himself back so that Peter could get to the finale-- he lasted all of ten minutes before it was too much and he found himself losing control, jerking forward and reaching out to grasp as the back of Peter’s neck-- to bring him in for a wet, breathy kiss that was more colliding teeth and traded gasps than actual contact, but he didn’t care. 

Wade came with Peter’s name on his lips and then he felt Peter spasming around him, the sensation making his eyes roll back as he jerked upward again, losing control of his own body for the briefest moment as Peter cried out and collapsed over him, taking in stuttered breaths against his shoulder as he lay against him in the sudden quiet. 

They stayed there for what seemed like hours, trying to remember what movement was, neither of them sure what to say or where to go from there until Wade spoke his thoughts out loud. 

He held Peter close in his arms and confessed, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been trying to pretend you’re not the focus of my life, but you are and I don’t know if you’re okay with that-- I don’t want to weigh you down or force you to tolerate anything you don’t want--” 

Peter shut his eyes and kissed him. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t interrupt with words. He didn’t need to say anything for Wade to understand what he was trying to convey. When they could no longer breathe, when their bodies screamed for a return to reality, Peter pulled away no more than an inch. 

“I’ve loved you longer than I’ve loved myself.” Peter held his hand gently, lowering his head just enough to kiss the side of his wrist. “You’ve never done anything I didn’t want. You’re the only person I look forward to spending time with every day. You preach about God, but Wade,” Peter laced their fingers together and squeezed his hand like he wanted to make sure they were tied to one another, “I’ve only ever worshipped you.” 

Wade knew he would lose everything, he knew his life couldn’t be the same after this, that his home and his city would shift, that the routines he’d grown used to, the comfort of stability would fall apart. 

He squeezed Peter’s hand back, held him even closer and was surprised at the lack of panic and fear in his heart. “It’s closing time, Darling.” 

Peter laid his head back down against Wade’s chest, settling against him comfortably and making no movement to leave. He smiled against Wade’s skin. “I know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a JOURNEY. I wrote this fic impulsively to avoid my other responsibilities. Oops? But, anyway, if you've read my stuff before you know how angsty we can get and this is still Angst Mode Light(tm), so I hope you all had fun! 
> 
> I want to thank everyone in the Priestfest Server for the support (btw Doc if you see this, thanks for the slaps because I was being lazy, I know, shhh don't be mad). ANYWAY. 
> 
> Much Love, 
> 
> Katana.


End file.
